The Door
by kissingANDkillers
Summary: A simple Billy Darley character study - How could someone survive and process the trauma of gang violence, and still perpetuate it? Rated T for Violence


There was a door. Not a real door, but a figurative one. Something he'd created in his youth. It was a thick, sturdy door, made from a solid slab of wood. And it came with a large, iron lock. It was the door that he kept in his mind. It wasn't a good place, this door. It was a place he never visited. It was a boundary he never crossed. Behind that door was his biggest pain. His worst memory. It had been locked behind that door for years. Locked safely away where he'd never feel it.

But tonight, he was standing in front of that door in his mind. Standing there, gripping the handle, knowing what he'd find inside. Knowing the pain it would cause. Afraid. But he needed to feel it. He needed to remember.

His hand gripped that door handle like it was gripping the glass of whiskey in his hand, palm cold. He took a long drink, braced himself and let the memory swarm him. He let door open.

The night Billy Darley first killed was a hot night in summer. He was barely eighteen; his skin was still speckled with acne and his limbs were long and thin. According to the state, he was a man; in reality he was a child, a skinny, terrified child. In the memory, Billy saw the truth of his youth for the first time. He'd always felt older than his years, but now he saw the kid. He mourned for that kid. He let a pool of tears fill at the corners of his eyes for that kid.

That kid hadn't deserved anything he'd faced. He hadn't deserved to feel the bite of a belt across his back. He hadn't deserved the pain of an empty stomach or the shame of poverty. No child does, Billy knew. But he'd always shouldered his life and his pain because he knew nothing better.

He thought of himself, like looking back through a ripple in time, and wanted to tell that kid there was plenty better. He wanted to pack that kid a bag and put him on a bus to anywhere. Anywhere but where he was, or where he would be. Especially that night that summer.

A week after his birthday, on Bones' garage lot, he'd been told to wait in his father's office. For what seemed like hours, he had waited. That room would heat up like a tin can, the air sizzling on his bare arms and legs until he thought, surely, the hair would catch fire. Instead, his baggy shirt was stuck to his body like a dress, emphasizing how poorly anything in his closet fit him.

He'd waited for so long, he'd considered maybe his dad was never coming. Maybe the whole thing had been a practical joke and his dad was at home, smoking a cigar in the living room as he watched the clock.

Bones knew just how long to wait, because he had arrived just then. And he wasn't alone. No, he was never alone then. Looking back, Billy realized how much stronger Bones had been. He'd had men working for him all the time, following him around so he could bark orders at them. Doing his bidding like servants with guns. Now, he barely staffed the garage. He'd lost so much of his original standing, so much of his strength. That realization was the only reprieve from grief Billy had in this memory: the realization that his father had grown so weak with time.

That night, however, he'd been at full strength. He'd snapped his huge fingers and barked Billy's name, calling him like a dog to his side. And he'd obeyed, like he always did.

Closing his eyes, Billy still felt the weight of Bones' arm on his back, pulling him in close so he could whisper in his ear.

"Tonight's the night ya grow the fuck up, son."

Billy flinched. Then and now. Past and present, the words made him shiver. Then, he'd known what those words meant. Now, he knew what those words did.

The boy they dragged into the office was young, like him. Standing there, Billy had thought he was a classmate possibly. Or a runaway he'd seen around town. Looking back now, he knew different. He'd learned from the paper that the guy was homeless. Ex-army, just discharged after his one and only tour. Discharged and untreated for the nightmares that plagued him. Untreated until he'd lost to the siren call of heroin.

He'd stolen something, Bones had explained. He'd cursed and kicked the boy repeatedly, making Billy jump in his skin. Billy had learned to hide the impulse in front of his father, but the fear still remained.

The poor kid was sick on the floor at one point, and Bones had only grown angrier. He had repeatedly slammed his foot into the boy's ribs until the kid's face was covered in blood and snot.

Then he'd handed Billy a tire iron, and told him to finish it.

That simple, like it was taking out the garbage.

Billy opened his eyes and stared at the wall before him, retreating from the memory. But it was on him like a hound, it's jaws closing around his throat.

The tire iron had been cold, even with the hot summer air all around them. Or maybe his skin had been cold. It was rough on his palms, hard to grip, and he'd let it slip from his hand more than once as he swung it over his head. He'd kept his eyes closed for some of it, until Bones had seen and yelled for him to watch. Then he'd watched as the boy stopped crying out in pain. He watched as the boy stopped reacting to the hits at all. He watched until it all ended and the iron was allowed to slip from his hands and clang to the cement floor. He watched while the body on the floor was hauled away, leaving a long smear of brownish red. He watched. And then he'd locked it all away. Washing his hands later, he'd stared at himself in the mirror. Stared at the boy with blood on his face, and banished his tears and his memories behind a door. A sturdy door, one that wouldn't let the nightmares behind it escape.

Billy shut his eyes hard and threw the glass in his hand across the room, satisfied when it shattered against the wall. And like that, the pain in his chest released. The boy in the mirror stopped crying and the memory vanished like smoke. Opening his eyes, he gulped down a breath of air and let it rush from his mouth in a sigh.

"Bill?" Joey appeared from somewhere, standing in the doorway with a cocked eyebrow. Looking at his brother, Billy took another breath. His heart felt nothing, the door in his mind was firmly shut. Another breath. Another exhale.

Joey crossed the room and Billy rose to meet him. His pulse was steady as he took his brother under his arm.

"Ya ready?"

Joey tilted his head to look up at him, a crooked grin on his face.

"For what?"

"Tonight's the night ya grow the fuck up."


End file.
